


Notes On Progress

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Community: makinghugospin, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Nonsexual Romance, Virgin Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt: virgin sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes On Progress

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I accidentally combined two prompts here. Someone had left a generic prompt involving Enjolras as a virgin sacrifice (to Grantaire?) and someone else had previously prompted a more specific Enjolras/Combeferre fic. I took a lot of inspiration from the latter, but didn't know that the person who'd replied to a question for clarification was in fact the former rather than the latter. My continued apologies to the anon who didn't really want this ending, but I have to say they were both still great prompts even if I didn't do either individual justice.

The first time Combeferre ever heard Enjolras mention the king was in the context of--what else?--politics. "What do you think?" he had asked one day, after leaving off his essay halfway through. The teachers had stopped caring. "About the spread of republicanism?"  
  
Combeferre had paused and looked him over. "Of course it will be universal, without concern for geographical limitations. France may be earlier than other lands--these leaders are so indolent, these people so ready for progress, and the institutions in place already to secure a smooth transition. But the rest of the world will follow, in time."  
  
"Of course such things as nationality are no concern," Enjolras had said, with an impatient wave of his hand. "But what of species?"  
  
"Spec..." Combeferre had trailed off, hoping against hope his dearest friend had decided to turn his attentions to biology, perhaps overexaggerating the speed of evolution.  
  
"The faerie are unlike you and I. The monarchy have their--inhuman needs. Is it not meet that they should rule over the others? What would become of them as common citizens?"  
  
"Perhaps they would chafe, but all the same--"  
  
"But then, does that undermine our commitment to progress across the world?"  
  
"The faerie," Combeferre admitted, "are not of this world. Enjolras, you don't--"  
  
"Ssh," he'd said. "Tell me again, about the moths and cocoons."  
  
When he wanted to be, he was after all a dedicated student.  
  


* * *

  
  
On Bossuet's twenty-fifth birthday, it rained. It was so cold and unpleasant out that no one wanted to stay outside, so all of his friends cramped into Joly's apartment instead, where it was too hot. Joly had tried to cook for the guests, and had burnt the meal. He had also gotten a hat, which he intended to give to Bossuet as a birthday present, but it did not fit, and so instead Bossuet sported around, displaying his bald spot to the crowd.  
  
"How can he be so happy?" Combeferre asked.  
  
"It is always the way of the people to adapt to their condition," Joly suggested. "Else there would be insurrections every hour. People do not take up arms against what they have become accustomed to."  
  
"What is there to rebel against?" Bossuet drawled, sipping some weak wine. "My friends are loyal, the nation yet survives."  
  
"And besides," Joly added under his breath, "there  _is_  Musichetta."  
  
"What about her?"  
  
"Bossuet and her have--dallied on occasion. So even if he cannot muster up a mistress of his own, he is quite safe from the dime at any rate." Combeferre must have recoiled in disgust, for Joly went on, "Come now! She is quite content with this state of affairs, and so am I--I did not think you would judge us. We all know your tastes are not for the domestic life."  
  
"I do not judge you," Combeferre muttered, "far from it. Excuse me." Avoiding another boisterous toast to the celebrating vagabond, he slipped across the room, to where Enjolras was leaned against a window. "Come along, it's too crowded here."  
  
Enjolras nodded. "Where to?"  
  
"Anywhere. We could--I don't know, visit your friend Grantaire, he will have better wine than this rot."  
  
"He is not my friend."  
  
"He is handsome."  
  
"I can judge for myself," Enjolras said with a thin smile, "and he is  _not_."  
  
"He adores you."  
  
"What is this to mean? Are you tired of me?"  
  
"Never!" Combeferre hissed, stepping aside as a confused but still-drinking Joly turned his head at the noise.  
  
"Perhaps it is  _you_  who ought to find another lover, for afterwards--"  
  
"Be quiet," said Combeferre, stepping off in search of a drink. Perhaps he ought to go drinking with Grantaire after all. It would be a change of pace to meet a man cognizant of his own misfortune.

* * *

"You can tell me what's going on."  
  
Enjolras shook his head, looking away. "No need. Let us...read these scientific tracts. Tell me what you think."  
  
"Come, now," said Combeferre.  
  
"It is nothing. There will be time enough for you to mourn."  
  
"I must know," he said irritably, with a flourish of his quill, "for my  _notes_."  
  
One could not argue with Combeferre's Notes. Combeferre's Notes would be a treatise for human and faeriekind. Already they contained history, political philosophy, zoology, some abstract algebra notes from a friend. Soon, they would contain analysis of magic. What were the experiences of the dime? Did it make a difference if they had abjured physical relations with the same, rather than the opposite, sex? What were the weather conditions in faerie? What could be concluded about faerie physiology?  
  
Combeferre's Notes were worth dying for.  
  
"For the  _Notes_ ," Enjolras rolled his eyes. "I am--regretful. This makes me uneasy."  
  
Combeferre breathed sharply. "How so?"  
  
"I am, of course, proud of what I--can do for my country. And I would not consider changing plans, so soon."  _Not and leave you, just slightly younger and more prodigious and just as chaste as me, the next in line._  "Yet, it crosses my mind now, that with revolutionary ideas afoot, the changing opinions of the people, that future generations may be--discontent. If there--if there had been some way I could perhaps--it would not need to be me who lived! But to assure that there would be no discord, no unwilling deaths in the name of harmony?"  
  
Combeferre almost wanted to laugh. " _This_  is what you regret?"  
  
"Well, as a revolutionary, I have some obligation--"  
  
"Let the future generations handle themselves! Is there nothing in your own life you regret, no opportunities missed?"  
  
"If you must know," he snapped, "yes. But they are no concern of yours."  
  
"Is that so."  
  
"Do not tease me--"  
  
"I would," Combeferre stepped closer, "never," tilted his neck up towards Enjolras' face, still staring past him, "consider it." He turned his lips out for a kiss, and Enjolras returned it, reaching around him to circle his neck, slide his glasses forward until Combeferre reached up for them, nearsighted eyes unneeding to focus on anything farther than Enjolras' embrace.  
  
"Now," he said, once they had broken apart and the glasses were folded in his hands, "you are going to sleep--no, ssh, right here--and I will add to my notes on the physical and mental benefits of kissing a pledged dime. And in the morning, I will read to you."  
  
Enjolras breathed deeply, then idly noted, "Someday you will need to find an unbiased editor."  
  
"Ssh. No more of that, I can double-check my own footnotes."  
  
He smiled. "Of course I trust you."  
  
Combeferre stayed up late, squinting and holding the paper close to his face. It was going to be a well-founded treatise. And he had not cried even once, even without the glasses to shade his face.  
  
This was progress. Enjolras would approve of progress.

* * *

There are pathways to faerie wherever humans are gathered. Sometimes they're easy to spot. Sometimes the world is so vibrant and brutal that they are hard to distinguish. That year in Paris, the shortest path was to perk one's nose for a livelier, less rancid smell than the surrounding effluvia. Around one too many Rues, past a churchyard full of bones, where a stone archway teetered but held firm.  
  
"See," Enjolras had said, "one sacrifice sufficed to make peace for all time between Earth and heaven. And here we are, making our compact with the underearth for another year!" He laughed quietly. "Be sure to write that my chastity was no proof of virtue."  
  
"You are a virtuous man," Combeferre had protested.  
  
"I would like to think so. But still a man, nothing more."  
  
But he made his way to the archway looking more and less than human. His bright hair had been brushed and twined with flowers, and he wore a red robe of one piece.  
  
Combeferre leaned against the far wall, forcing himself to stammer "Happy birthday."  
  
"It will be a happy day," Enjolras said, "that I pass with you. Now. Have you made copies of your notes--"  
  
"--in case things fail to go according to plan? Yes, of course, and I've stashed them where Joly knows to look and where Grantaire will not spill wine on them. Do not underestimate me."  
  
"I would not dare," Enjolras smiled.  
  
"All right," snapped one of the escorts, "you clear out."  
  
"He comes with me," Enjolras declared.  
  
"It's not the done thing," the other one muttered.  
  
"If there is a problem, he will be happy to leave, but until then, he comes along."  
  
Combeferre scribbled some notes down and did not make eye contact.  
  
The first escort shook his head. "Be on with it, then. Been a bloody enough year as things stand."  
  
He reached for one of the stones, just  _so_ \--Combeferre hastily traced a diagram--and followed through.  
  
Faerie was a quiet place, below Paris. Few plants grew in the open field where they found themselves; Combeferre sniffed all he could find hurriedly, as the escorts glared. What to write down first? The ancient, weathered feel of the three stone steps, down from the archway? The sky, a shade of yellow mixed in with the deep layers of blue?

The king, approaching at the appointed hour, flanked by his retinue. They were smaller than humans, but not by much, and all carried different weapons. A dull sword seemed to reflect no sunlight, a twisted bow had a strange grain made from a tree Combeferre did not recognize. More sketches. Enjolras' face at least was unchanging; he looked steadily ahead, avoiding his escorts, avoiding all the more Combeferre.  
  
"The quarterling comes," the king pronounced, somewhat unnecessarily in Combeferre's opinion. "And a man."  
  
Enjolras made no reply.  
  
"Will you bow to your fate?"  
  
"I bow to no king," he said coolly.  
  
One of the faerie retainers glared over at Enjolras' escort, and began muttering something in a high-pitched voice, to which the human called back with a look of  _it's been a rough year for all of us_ , nodding over at Combeferre, who scooted forward in spite of himself, quill at the ready. He wrote as much as he could, the ink taking an extra moment to sink into the page, like blood congealing on the paper.  
  
But at a word from the faerie retainer, Enjolras silently lay down, untying his robe. Another retainer brought out a crystal half-sphere, breathed into it until the surface clouded over with its breath, and then reached for Enjolras' groin.  
  
 _Don't you dare,_  Combeferre wanted to call--who could be so composed as to call them anything but beasts?  _Don't touch him!_  
  
But he remained silent. The price of peace was already too high.  
  
The faerie set down the sphere over Enjolras' unprotesting body until it lit up with a blue light, then quickly withdrew it, giving a satisfied nod. The king only chuckled. "What a strange quarterling you bring us, this time. But all in order, I see."  
  
He picked up the robe as if to cast it aside, but hesitated, turning it over. The inside layer had been made of a black fabric, making it symmetric overall.  
  
Combeferre groaned, unable to keep quiet any longer. "Only you would be concerned about  _political symbolism_  at a time like this!"  
  
Enjolras gave a weak smile back.  
  
"It's all right," he whispered, "don't be afraid, I'm right here."  
  
And even Enjolras had been human enough, all along, to take heart in that, steeling his expression as the king plunged a dagger through his breast.  
  
"Come now," hissed one of the human escorts.  
  
Combeferre was too numb to blurt. It seemed impossible that he would forget any of it before he could write up the notes, the image frozen in front of him. Couldn't he at least stay longer, find out more? But his presence had been strange enough already, and before he could protest, he was unceremoniously huddled out into the street.  
  
The city seemed a hundred times danker than when he had left. The wind blew his ink dry. Yet, as they walked past the churchyard, Combeferre--though exhausted--seemed to feel as if across the world, a moth was beating its wings, and bringing change.


End file.
